


Fearless

by saisei



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today was Kenma's first game since he was hurt, and Kuroo couldn't help remembering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> > You say the hill's too steep to climb, chiding  
> You say you'd like to see me try, climbing  
> You pick the place and I'll choose the time  
> And I'll climb the hill in my own way  
> Just wait a while for the right day  
> Fearless, Pink Floyd
>> 
>> (link to playlist in end notes)

Years of morning practice had trained Kuroo's body clock to wake him without fail at half-past five, but he enjoyed opening his eyes to the quiet potential of the half-light stillness. Awareness crept in slowly, and he took careful stock. The pillows over his head were familiar, as was the warmth at his side. He pressed a smile down into the sheets even as he reached out blindly with one arm to find the nearest part of Kenma.

A leg, Kuroo decided, after letting his fingertips get their bearing, finding the soft secret warmth of an inner thigh before Kenma trapped his fingers firmly.

"How long have you been up?" Kuroo asked, raising his head just enough to let a pillow drop down so he could direct a wider good-morning smile at the side of Kenma's face.

Kenma paused whatever game he was playing on his phone and half-turned, deftly keeping Kuroo's hand pressed between his legs while reaching out to trace the lines that the pillows always left on Kuroo's face.

"Not long," Kenma said. The evasiveness meant he didn't want to be honest, but nothing Kuroo could do would reward Kenma with eight hours of beauty sleep, and he had accepted that. Yearning for the impossible didn't make anyone feel better. They were happy as they were, and that was what counted.

He turned his head quickly and caught the side of Kenma's hand in his teeth, grinning and licking a stripe up to the base of the little finger, laving the scars there. Kenma squirmed, face twisting in a surprised laugh, and Kuroo let him go and rolled up. He kissed Kenma, open-mouthed and greedy, but resisted Kenma's attempts to drag him back to the mattress.

"We should go for a run before it gets too hot."

Kenma pulled back enough to make sure Kuroo saw his displeased face. "We could skip running."

"Nah."

"It's already hot."

" _You're_ already hot," Kuroo countered, kissing the tip of Kenma's nose. He knew Kenma would get up, and Kenma knew that he knew. So he waited, fingers tapping against Kenma's shin, watching the blank gray sky through the gap in the bedroom blackout curtains grow pale with early morning light. Finally Kenma acceded with a sigh.

"You suck," Kenma said, pushing Kuroo to the side with both hands and a foot, until he went over the edge of the bed and dropped to the floor with what Kuroo liked to think of as feline grace. Kenma was grumpier getting out of bed, laddering his arms in a half-assed stretch before shucking off his pajama pants. Kuroo helpfully grabbed shorts and a t-shirt from the laundry basket, crushing them into a ball that he aimed at Kenma's chest. Kenma didn't fumble the catch as badly as he used to, and Kuroo looked down to hide a grin as he curled up to stand and find his own running gear.

He liked that Kenma wasn't self-conscious around him, not minding when Kuroo watched his cute flat ass or the way his hair stuck out with static. Kenma's current dye job was light brown, just a few shades darker than his summer tan – he'd gone with his mother, and they were rocking the pair look again.

"Pervert," Kenma said absently, sliding his glasses on and intercepting Kuroo's lecherous gaze with an unimpressed stare.

"But I'm _your_ pervert," Kuroo pointed out, and tried so hard to look dashing, one hand splayed wide on his chest, that Kenma nearly smiled.

_One million points to me._

Kenma wouldn't have been at ease like this back when they started dating, and the first few months of living together had been horrible, but everything had been worth it because here they were now. Kuroo ducked his head for one more kiss before Kenma became even more skeptical of his intentions.

Kenma broke the kiss off when Kuroo tried to slide a hand up his shirt, stepping neatly away. "You should make breakfast when we get back," he suggested, only a little breathless. "Seeing as you're the one who doesn't want to stay in and have sex."

"Yeah yeah yeah." Kuroo grabbed him by the hand, suddenly needing to move, and dragged him out into the cool morning air, jogging down the stairs and hitting the pavement, rushing to meet the dawn.

He worried that he clung to Kenma too much, and that it was unhealthy. There was an essential difference between love and possession, and Kuroo worked hard to stay on the love side. Kenma probably knew – that kind of data analysis came as naturally to him as breathing – but two years ago a group of third-years on Kenma's university team had beaten the crap out of him for not bowing down to their sempai-kohai bullshit.

"This will teach me," Kenma had said with a sigh, lying battered in the hospital bed; finally, wearily coherent. "I guess."

Kuroo had been terrified of hurting him; half of Kenma's fingers and his wrist were broken, and he'd been kicked in the face bad enough that he'd needed emergency surgery on his left eye. So Kuroo restricted his yearning hands to Kenma's feet. He didn't care. Kenma's weird prehensile toes were freaking adorable. "Don't you _dare_ try and turn this into a life lesson," Kuroo snapped, tugging on both big toes to get his attention.

Kenma had given him another sigh, and Kuroo'd thought that was the end of the conversation. He knew it hurt for Kenma to talk. But then Kenma said, voice ghost-quiet, "What am I going to do now?"

Kuroo's brain supplied him with a hundred suggestions. They'd begun tentatively going out once Kenma started university, taking things slowly, but now Kenma was hurt. Kuroo should move in with him and never leave the apartment – never even leave his bed. That nearly sounded reasonable. Kenma could quit school and let Kuroo look after him forever. He and everyone they knew should never even so much as _think_ about volleyball again. All extreme measures, but he'd do anything to keep Kenma safe.

Except... the world had already failed to protect Kenma, and Kuroo _would not_ let his terrified boyfriend bullshit fuck Kenma up even more. So he rubbed gently at Kenma's arches and said, "Well, you're stuck lying around here for a while, you'll figure it out." 

Kenma frowned, and Kuroo's heart skipped at how familiar that expression was; how fond he was of it. Kenma'd only taken a couple of hours after coming out of anesthesia to figure out how to communicate displeasure, even with half his face bandaged and bruised. "I'm supposed to get up and take walks. The nurses here nag worse than you."

"Aww," Kuroo cooed in his best imitation of his university team's setter, Oikawa Tooru, complete with sugary smile. "You _do_ love me after all."

The downturn to Kenma's mouth had wavered as he held back a smile. "I'm reconsidering that," he told Kuroo wryly, closing his good eye and shifting restlessly. "Could you brush my hair? My head feels gross."

"On it," Kuro had said, and picked Kenma's mother's hairbrush up from the roll-away side table, forcing his heartbreak down far enough that maybe Kenma would overlook it.


	2. Chapter 2

Across the road and around the curve from their building, a paved slope led up to the levee. Proximity to the river had been the main selling point of their apartment, at least for Kuroo; Kenma had been more concerned with internet access. On the levee's far side the riverbank was dotted with playing fields, but along the top a running-slash-bike trail wound east and west. Kuroo pulled Kenma to the left, and just a couple hundred meters down they caught the first sliver of red-gold molten sun peeking out from behind the upriver factories.

Kenma shook his hand free of Kuroo's grasp and flipped his fingers in dismissal, encouraging him to sprint ahead. This was the best time of day – face into the wind, Kuroo always felt like he was flying, and Kenma knew that. Kuroo tossed a grin over his shoulder, startled for a moment by how Kenma's hair lit like a halo, and then took off like he was trying to catch the sun, letting its power flow through him. He could feel down to his bones that today was going to be a good day.

He was sweat-slick by the time he hit the three-kilometer marker and turned back. The first bicycles taking the scenic route to the station had started whizzing past, and he had to brush aside irrational worry. When they'd started their morning runs, he'd stuck fast to Kenma's side, even though Kenma was at best an apathetic jogger. Everything Kenma saw on one side was still – three surgeries later – a blur; what if he fell in the river or got hit by a bike or lost his way?... Or most likely, gave himself eyestrain from rolling his eyes too hard at Kuroo's overactive and overprotective imagination.

Kenma letting go of his hand was not without symbolic significance, was the thing.

Their worst fight so far had been back when they'd begun dating. Kenma'd just started university and had moved into a microscopic studio apartment after Aki – his mother – resettled in Yokohama to be close to _her_ boyfriend. Kenma had been the one to ask Kuroo out – even though he confessed later that he'd expected Kuroo to turn him down. 

He'd asked with an unnerving detachment, much like when he'd come out to the Nekoma team; he'd said it was better for everyone to know because lying was too much work. Kuro figured he just wanted acknowledgment that he had feelings, so he wouldn't have to keep hiding. But by the time Kenma came out with his awkward _Do you want to... with me_ , Kuroo'd had three years of wondering what Kenma being gay _meant_ and ten years of accumulated trust and love. He'd said _yes_ and kissed Kenma there, on Kenma's bed, which had to do double duty as a sofa.

He'd worried that maybe he wouldn't get turned on, with a guy, and that had quickly changed to worry about freaking Kenma out with how much he wanted to make out with him. When they finally had sex it was earthshaking, and he went around for days with a dazed, irrepressible smile.

He was blindsided by their first actual relationship problem, which was Kenma getting prickly about Kuroo hanging out at his place so much, as if his presence was yet another stressor to be dealt with. This pissed Kuroo off – he still lived with his parents, it wasn't like they could go to _his_ house and mess around – which in turn made Kenma go tense and quiet, shoulders curling in like he was trying to turn invisible, which eventually led to Kuroo asking Kenma if he wanted to break up.

"You'd be fine, right?" he'd said, frustration taking the form of a crooked, insincere smile. "Get the house all to yourself again."

Kenma had given him a flat, unimpressed stare for several seconds past uncomfortable and well into disturbing. Then he'd stood up, walked right out the front door, and vanished in the space of time it took Kuroo to wonder what the fuck was _wrong_ with him to provoke a fight with his best friend just because he was his boyfriend now.

Running after Kenma, he kept turning that anger on himself. His accusation _was_ true, in a sense, but it was also all wrong.

Kuroo liked Aki a lot and respected her for bringing Kenma up on her own, but truth be told Kenma's childhood – in Kuroo's opinion – had been _shitty_. Aki had never got home from work earlier than ten, so Kenma ended up alone most of the time he wasn't in school, doing the shopping and laundry and cooking, with no one around to notice or care if he spent more time playing games than doing homework.

Admittedly, Kuroo grew up next door to the house where his grandparents and uncle's family lived, and he had more cousins in Saitama who invaded on weekends to stay in his room. Privacy and downtime weren't concepts he'd known had existed for ages.

But Kuroo _knew_ Kenma was the opposite; he just didn't get how things between them had become so strange and out of balance, now that they'd leveled up their friendship. He hadn't expected that he'd be such a jerk. He was disappointed with himself.

He finally found Kenma seated on a bench in the weedy park by the train tracks. He only got three words into the apology he'd been mentally practicing before Kenma interrupted.

"I can live by myself," Kenma said, not pausing his game as Kuroo sat down next to him. "Even if I didn't have anyone, I'd get out of bed every morning and keep the bathroom clean. But I don't _want_ to. If that counts," he added sharply, and Kuroo would rather have been yelled at. He could feel his face flushing hot with shame.

"You're not giving up on me, right?" he'd had to ask.

Kenma's scowl was a mix of _are you stupid_ and genuine anger; even the flicks of his finger across the screen as he set up combos was accusatory. "I'm stubborn to a stupid degree."

"I love that about you."

That earned Kuroo an irritated glare. "But I always have to change to keep up with you." Kenma shut down the app on his phone with a huff. "Practice more, study harder, learn to talk to people, because that's normal for you. But _my_ normal needs time, and I can't do that with someone in my space." The words rang in Kuroo's head like an ultimatum, and his worry must have shown, because Kenma's jaw set with determination. "Yet."

Kuroo stretched his arms out along the back of the bench and leaned his head back to stare up at the hazy sky through branches and leaves. "Maybe I'm the one that should change," he said. "You're not responsible for me."

"I feel like I am," Kenma answered after a moment, voice low like his anger had wrung him out.

"Nah." Kuroo leaned just enough to the side that their shoulders brushed. He felt Kenma tense, but at least he didn't pull away.

"Kind of." Kuroo let the words hang there, and after a moment Kenma elaborated: "You wouldn't have these problems with someone else." His tone was matter-of-fact, but he was emanating some emotion that was part shame and part sadness. Kuroo hated having done that to him.

"I'd for sure have _some_ kind of problems," Kuroo had felt he needed to point out. "My mom hates my dad's clothes and the money he spends on his motorcycle. My one aunt's over every weekend complaining about her marriage, and the other one wants to move back in Fukui. I bet even your parents didn't get along perfect all the time." He gave Kenma a warning nudge a second before sliding his arm off the bench and around Kenma's shoulders. Kenma didn't shrug him off, and relief hit like a wave. "I like you and I like dating you, so it's really just a matter of knowing what I need to do to make you feel better."

"I'll send you a list."

Kuroo was ninety-nine percent sure Kenma was serious, and grinned into Kenma's hair. "I look forward to it." One or both of them was shaking, but Kuroo didn't plan on calling attention to it. "If you can not give up on me, I'll try to be less of an asshole."

That earned him a small scoffing noise. "I already said I won't give up on you."

"Because you love me."

"Because I'm stubborn."

"And you love me."

"Are your ears working right?"

Kuroo had smirked, knowing Kenma couldn't see, but got an elbow in his stomach anyway, because apparently Kenma had a sixth sense for his assholery. "I love you."

There'd been a slight pause. "Tell me again?"

So of course Kuroo had, with every step they took back to Kenma's house, where he'd kissed him goodbye and waved over his shoulder as he headed back to his own home.


	3. Chapter 3

Kuroo had the sun at his back, so he spotted Kenma first, but after a moment Kenma raised a hand and started slowing down in anticipation of the turn-around.

"You're supposed to run _faster_ when you see me," Kuroo called. "Throw yourself into my arms like in the movies."

"Why are you assuming I'm not trying to get away from you?"

Kuroo held out his hand and Kenma slapped his palm as he changed direction. His hair and his t-shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, and he looked grumpy.

"Race you to the park rules sign," Kuroo said, pointing. "Ready and – go."

"Oh, _fuck_ you," Kenma muttered in English, but Kuroo heard the steady beat of his furious steps bearing down on him and took off.

He didn't have enough breath to laugh until he flew past the sign with Kenma at his side – too lazy to bother pulling ahead, but too irritated to let Kuroo win. He had a pleasant burn in his legs as they settled into the walk home, and the good feeling about the day resurfaced. Kuroo loved racing Kenma, and he said so, sliding his fingers into Kenma's hair to push it out of his face.

"I beat you," Kenma said. "What do I get?"

Kuroo raised his eyebrows as suavely as he could and leered. "Sexual favors?"

"I can get those anytime," Kenma dismissed. Kuroo put a hand to his chest, shocked and wounded, but Kenma continued on, "Dinner for a week."

Kenma was the better cook – he had years more practice than Kuroo – but one of their ironclad rules was that each did exactly half of the housework. Kuroo had the CookPad app on his phone; he got by well enough these days to not get scathing critiques from Kenma, and _someday_ he was going to earn a compliment, damn it.

Kuroo turned onto the path down from the levee. "Dinner for the rest of the month if your team wins the game today."

Kenma stumbled, and Kuroo stuck out his arm automatically, in case he needed something to grab. Kenma got his footing back on his own, though, and shoved his hands in his pockets pointedly.

"My team _sucks_ ," he said, and Kuroo couldn't get a reading on how Kenma meant that. Weary affection? Despair? Regret?

When in doubt, innuendo was always good, so he leered and said, "Tell me more."

Kenma's school team had been dissolved because of the bullying scandal; Kuroo'd assumed Kenma wouldn't want to play any more – he wasn't sure that he _could_. But Kenma had come back from classes one day with a flyer for the Shinjuku Dragonflies, an amateur LGBT club. One of their players, formerly part of the Fukurodani Block LINE group, had made the connection between Nekoma's gay setter and Kenma's mom's furious grief in her TV interview. She'd bought Kenma a coffee and asked him to at least think about it.

"So I guess I'm being recruited," Kenma had said, expression dubious as he settled next to Kuroo on the sofa, one knee tucked under his chin.

Kuroo would rather cheerfully burn in hell before he pointed out the obvious: Kenma was still doing physical therapy, and hadn't yet re-mastered pencils and chopsticks. Kuroo honestly doubted he'd ever control the ball again the way he had in high school. Hinata had sent a huge number of articles about one-eyed volleyball players and recs for different kinds of sports glasses – _he means well_ , Kenma had said, squinting at his phone – but the idea of Kenma being targeted by balls when he had depth perception problems made Kuroo want to break out the bubble wrap.

"Cool," he'd said, though, giving Kenma a nod. "What do you think?"

Kenma had sighed. "I don't want to play forever. But _I_ want to decide when to quit." His voice got quieter; the steely tone Kuroo heard sounded like Aki. "Not let someone take it away from me. Sometimes... it's fun."

"I'll wear my _Practice Safe Sets_ shirt to all your games," Kuroo had promised, "and tell everyone you're my boyfriend."

Kenma must be remembering the same conversation now, because there's a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Speaking of sucking, your dick will see no action anytime soon if you wear one of your stupid English shirts."

"No worries." Kuroo let his smile go a little sharp. He owned setter appreciation shirts in Japanese, too.

"Worries," Kenma corrected.

"About?"

"I haven't played a real game for two years. The coed rules are different. And we really need to beat the Young Business Owners' Association."

"You've been practicing with Oikawa. What does he say?" Kuroo pulled his keys out as they reached their building, flipping them in one hand as he climbed the stairs.

"He asks a lot of questions about my hair. I think he's trying to figure out if he likes guys." Kenma paused. "Not me. But I don't think he has gay friends he can talk to."

Kuroo snorted, walking down the breezeway to their front door and holding it open for Kenma once he finagled the sticky lock open. "I'm thrilled you're helping with his sexuality crisis. But I was asking about volleyball."

Kenma stepped out of his sneakers, leaving them there for Kuroo to turn around and set neatly to the side of the entrance, next to his own.

"I'm not as good as I used to be," Kenma said flatly. "Dibs on first shower."

"Don't take too long washing your gay hair," Kuroo said, hanging his keys on the hook and crossing the kitchen to the fridge, with Kenma trailing after to hit the switch for the water heater. He caught Kenma with a hand at his waist and kissed him loudly. "You're looking forward to the game, right?"

Kenma wrinkled his nose and headed for the washroom. Kuroo got a sweet glimpse of him pulling off his shirt before Kenma pulled the curtain shut pointedly. He must have caught on to Kuroo's voyeuristic ways, alas.

Kuroo got the miso soup and the fish going and then set the table, putting the leftover vegetables and the pickles in matching bowls. He wasn't out to his family at all – just the thought of his grandparents' disappointment made his stomach cramp – but when they'd moved here together _because Kenma can't live on his own right now_ , his mother had replaced Kenma's 100-yen dishes with designer sets from her storage room. She hadn't said anything and Kuroo had been terrified to admit noticing, but now he and Kenma had matching pairs of rice bowls, chopsticks, and tea cups – exactly the sort of thing couples were given when they got married.

Five minutes before the rice was ready, Kenma emerged and waved Kuroo off to the shower impatiently.

"Hurry up, I'm starving," Kenma said, as if it wasn't his fault Kuroo'd had to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Kenma spent the rest of the morning nesting on the sofa in his room with his PSP and one textbook, which Kuroo suspected was just set dressing. _Portrait of Student Pretending to Study_. _Still Life with Final Fantasy_.

Kuroo worked through the remainder of his own weekend chores, feeling satisfied each time he ticked off a box on the job board, mentally giving himself a few thousand points for each. He took a walk down to the supermarket and came back with two eco bags' worth of food for the week, which he put away with a certain smugness – _he_ never had to use the stepstool to reach the top shelves. He was prepping for a lunch salad and trying to remember the trick to cooking rolled eggs when his phone buzzed.

**footrub?**

And there was Kenma, resurfacing. "Gimme a sec."

**k**

"I thought your sneakers were broken in by now." Kuroo put the knife behind the board where it wouldn't accidentally fall and dried his hands. His phone stayed silent, and when he turned Kenma was watching him through the doorway.

"My sneakers are fine. I'm nervous. I think."

Kuroo left his slippers at the doorway and dropped into the far end of the sofa, pulling Kenma's feet into his lap. Kenma told him his hands were cold, but went back to his game anyway, looking content. For the longest time he'd only been able to play Kuroo's 3DS, because his hands weren't healed enough for the PSP. Kenma's primary motivation in doing his PT exercises, as far as Kuroo knew, had been to get enough dexterity back so he could be reunited with his beloved handheld of choice. 

Getting Kenma to put a name to his emotions was usually like pulling teeth. When asked directly, he'd admit to being frustrated, sad, or angry, but never as if that had any relevance – stuff happened anyway, no matter how Kenma felt about it, so he tried to just avoid feeling. Kuroo moved from rubbing circles to cross-fiber friction on Kenma's heels, thinking about what it meant for Kenma to consider his nervousness pertinent. But there wasn't anything he could do, except stand back and let Kenma do this – return to the court for the first time since his last, disastrous game.

Kenma hadn't told Kuroo that his university team sempai were bullies; that story had come out afterwards. Kuroo had known he was joining the team, of course; he'd been excited. Kenma'd said they didn't have any good players – all his school's teams were crappy – but it gave him something to keep texting Shouyou about. When Kuroo asked about Kenma's practices and games he got just a shrug or a wrinkled nose and a change of subject.

And Kuroo had let him get away with that, still figuring out how not to kill their new relationship before it had really begun and struggling with his own school team.

In hindsight, he'd known two things about Kenma that should have set off warning bells. One, Kenma liked to avoid awkward topics by not bringing them up. Kuroo'd known Kenma for at least a year before he found out that his dad was dead and not just living someplace else. Two, he knew Kenma relied on that evasion because he had no sense of diplomacy. While honesty might be a virtue, Kuroo suspected that sugar-coating the truth or thinking up white lies just struck Kenma as too much of a hassle. If something or someone was completely pathetic, he always just said so.

So Kuroo's theory was that Kenma assumed his new team would listen to him the way Nekoma had, but instead he ended up pissing off the upperclassmen. For some reason, the other first- and second-years had decided that made Kenma their champion. They played better when they listened to him and took advantage of his game sense – well, duh. But the conflict between Kenma and his sempai had escalated, with no way to take the pressure off, until even the regulars had ignored the sempai, listened to Kenma, and _finally_ won a game halfway through the school year.

They'd asked Kenma to stay behind, afterwards, for a talk. Kenma should have quit the club right then and walked away, except he could be perversely tenacious. He should have apologized and bowed down to them, like that picture of Kageyama that Oikawa kept as the lock screen on his phone. _Kuroo_ should have asked more questions and pushed for answers, but he'd made the stupid assumption that volleyball was a known and safe quantity; he'd been too distracted by finding the right balance of space and privacy, quiet and touch between them to notice that Kenma had other troubles.

But the _should have_ s that still made Kuroo feverish with rage belonged to the three sempai who'd called Kenma out. They shouldn't have been so determined that he'd never set a ball again that Kenma needed plates and wires to put the bones in his hands and face back together. They shouldn't have hated him so much that even when he was on the floor they kept kicking him. They should have just _died_ before they even thought about laying a hand on him.

When Kenma was in the hospital, the anger curled around and around like a dragon under Kuroo's skin until his breath had come short with the effort to keep it hidden. He'd thought he was doing a good job of pretending to be his normal self, until Kenma went in for surgery and his mother asked him to wait with her on the roof.

"I've been smoking too much since I got that phone call," Aki said, lighting up. She leaned on the railing and stared out to where the gray sky met the hazy gray rooftops. She dressed like Kenma did, in the sort of unmemorable clothes sold on discount racks at the local supermarket. She was wearing a cotton print dress that the wind blew against her legs, and with her brown hair in a ponytail she looked way too young to have a 19-year-old kid. That plus the way she spoke about herself in the third person – _Aki-chan wa ne_ – both childish and disconcertingly dispassionate.

Kuroo stood where the smoke wouldn't blow, and found himself with nothing to say.

"The last time I got a call like that," she went on, "Takumi was already dead. I really... loved him, you know. But my mother said, get rid of the kid and come home, we'll fix this..." Her voice cracked, and she took another drag on her cigarette. "We'll erase the past three years and pretend I never left home." Smoke curled up around her fingers.

"I'm sorry," Kuroo said, knocked out of his own selfish thoughts and trying to navigate the unknown with inadequate manners.

Aki looked up at him sidelong, the challenge in her expression too like what he usually got from Kenma. "I put Kenma in an orphanage and went home," she said, and Kuroo froze, trying to make sense of this. "I was only about the same age as you now. I managed to be a good daughter for a month, and then turned my back on all of them and came here to be a bad mother." Her shoulders curled in a minimal shrug. "Kenma's all that I have. So. Let me do the fighting, take on the damn school, the media, the police – I'll find a lawyer. I'm his _mother_. But I need you to take care of him. Like I wish I could have done for Takumi."

Yup, Kenma definitely got his scary percipience from his mother.

"I know you're together," she added to clarify, and Kuroo's stomach dropped like the worst pre-game jitters ever. "Kenma told me. I'm happy for him, you know?" She glanced at him again, and then pulled a towel handkerchief out of her bag and handed it over. Kuroo wiped his traitor eyes obediently while Aki finished her cigarette and dropped the end into a portable ashtray. "I don't cry if I'm smoking," she said. "I should quit though, huh?"

"Crying and smoking both," Kuroo had said, trying to sniffle undetected. "You ever consider playing volleyball?"

Aki had checked the time on her phone, giving a very Kenma-like sigh. "What's the position where you punch the hell out of the ball? I'd like to do that." She tapped the phone case against the railing, restless energy, like she was working up to flinging it over the edge. "The police have Kenma's phone. I don't know who I need to call. Teachers, coaches, friends. How do I get in touch with Shouyou or... Leif?"

"Lev," Kuroo had said, taking a breath. His head had started to hurt – he'd only slept a few hours in the waiting room – but keeping busy meant having less time to think. "I can help. Don't worry."

Aki hadn't looked worried, but she'd lit another cigarette as Kuroo started scrolling through his contacts.

Kuroo hadn't told Kenma about that (in retrospect, highly embarrassing) conversation. But he'd stopped being angry at the unalterable past, and got busy figuring out what had to be done. Finding an apartment he and Kenma could live in without getting on each others' last nerves, scheduling doctor's appointments and rehab and classes, learning to cook, and so on. He'd planned on quitting his team to make more time, he really had, but Kenma insisted that was stupid – he needed an outlet, Kenma said, though he mercifully didn't specify for what (though he undoubtedly could have). Kuroo got even better at spiking the hell out of the ball, though Oikawa credited his amazing setting for every improvement.

Kuroo let him boast, because while he'd been forewarned – by Hinata and other Karasuno players – about what an ass Oikawa was, Oikawa had been unexpectedly kind since Kenma was hurt. For someone who put such effort into showcasing his self-centeredness, Oikawa carved out a lot of time in his schedule for a middle blocker who kept missing practices and a painfully shy setter with a stubborn resolve to play again, despite insisting he didn't like volleyball that much and flinching visibly whenever a gym door opened or shut.

Even now Kuroo had times when he wondered how well he – or Oikawa or Shouyou or anyone – understood Kenma. All he could do was trust Kenma to tell him what he wanted him to know, but he guessed that was part of loving someone. Or at any rate, that trust was why their love worked.

Kuroo finished with Kenma's feet, waited a moment for further instructions, and then sneakily started to raise Kenma's toes into biting range.

He _almost_ had him, when Kenma put his foot down – literally and figuratively. "Kuro."

Kuroo huffed, annoyed for a moment that he hadn't been sneaky enough, and then asked if Kenma wanted him to do his hands.

Kenma eyed Kuroo and his plethora of ulterior motives with suspicion, but set his game aside and sat up, holding one hand out like they were shaking on a deal. Kuroo took it and started a light massage; Kenma should have done his regular exercises this morning, like always, but more stretching and relaxing were probably a good thing. Kenma said once, when asked, that playing volleyball now was like the difficulty level had gone from _hard_ to _insane_ – he had to rely more on what he knew instead of what he saw, and even when he had the ball, forcing a good toss from stiff fingers was exhausting.

So Kuroo wanted to give him an edge in today's game. The Dragonflies weren't the best team, but it'd be nice, Kuroo thought, if they won because of some insanely brilliant setting.


	5. Chapter 5

Kuroo ended up on the edge of his seat for most of the game. Both teams sucked – in the ways that could be expected when teams didn't have enough practice time, and were mostly social clubs – and he couldn't turn off the part of his brain that insisted on spotting strengths and flaws that _he'd_ have worked on if he was in charge.

But the Dragonflies held their own against the Young Business Owners' Association Hamsters, winning two of the first four sets. Going into the fifth, the Hamsters were obviously exhausted. The Dragonflies' cheering squad – six people including Kuroo – went to their feet and spurred their team to victory with tambourines and maracas borrowed from someone's part-time job at a karaoke club.

The rented gym was small, shabby, and obviously dated back to Showa. Seating was on battered pipe chairs, and broken windows had been covered over with plywood. Kuroo didn't care; he was watching Kenma play again. Kenma would definitely deny that he was having fun, but Kuroo saw his give-away tells each time he was on the court. The way his chin came up, the smirk and high-fives when points were scored, the teasing mindgames that he played on the Hamsters' hapless middle blockers.

Kenma made mistakes, of course. His tosses could lack precision and height, and the first time he dove for the ball he missed by a good thirty centimeters. But he wasn't _worse_ than the blocker who kept hitting the net or the wing spiker with erratic receives, and the Hamsters did a lot of pointless running around in circles, like their namesakes. He suspected they were confused about their own signals.

All in all, it was a solid, evenly-matched game. Kuroo was glad both that the Dragonflies won, and that they – Kenma – had had to fight hard. He hoped Kenma got to play in the next game, and that the opposing team had an even more ridiculous name.

The captains go their teams lined up to bow to each other, and then competitiveness was put aside; team members flowed together with neighborly ease, exchanging gossip, advice, and good-natured insults. A blue plastic sheet was put down with a cooler from each team in the center, and iced PET bottles of tea and juice were passed around. Cell phones came out for information to be exchanged and commemorative pictures to be taken. Someone called Kuroo's name, and when he turned, the Dragonflies' ace – Okamura? Okumuro? – waved him over.

"You used to play with Kenma, right?"

Kenma was standing half behind her, hair tangled with sweat, fingers and wrist still taped up. His expression didn't give anything away; if Kuroo'd had to guess, he'd say Kenma was either trying not to laugh at him, or not to run away.

"Back in high school."

Okumura – maybe – had a ball tucked under her arm, and she took it out and gave it a spin like a _tokusatsu_ villain plotting world domination. "When's the last time he tossed for you?"

Just like that, Kuroo was pushed out onto the court, with Kenma trailing after him muttering under his breath that he was too tired for this.

Kuroo hadn't played with Kenma in years; his nervous excitement was probably embarrassing Kenma vicariously. So much had changed...

He used the first two tosses for calibration, easy spikes to test how they meshed after playing apart for so long, fumbling to find the right timing. To the Dragonflies, Kenma's cautious tosses, meant to control the inevitable clumsiness, were simply his style that they'd learned to accommodate (and used as an offensive tactic with ruthless cheer). Kuroo remembered when Kenma's best tosses showed artistry and intelligence, combined with the uncanny sensation that Kenma was reading the court so well he could see all the possible outcomes and take his pick of the most favorable.

But Kuroo himself had been spoiled with Kenma as practically his personal setter for seven straight years. They'd challenged each other to do better, _evolving_ as Nekomata used to say, but that symbiosis was also a weakness. At least for Kuroo, who'd spent his first year at university on the sidelines, eating the frustration of having his play style deconstructed.

He'd gone into his second year with renewed power and confidence, instincts recalibrated and perception honed sharp. He'd been so fucking relieved when Kenma shrugged and said he guessed he was going to play for his school's team; that meant volleyball was still a part of who they were to each other. Kuroo had felt like Kenma had his back as he adapted to Oikawa's style, learning to manipulate the setter's mess of charisma, childishness and compelling insecurity into a formidable weapon.

Today he saw Oikawa's influence on Kenma in turn: the accuracy from hours tossing at targets to over-compensate with muscle memory, and a certain sarcasm in his stance, shoulders uncharacteristically tucked back. Bad posture made Oikawa break out in hives, or so he said – Kuroo assumed he was speaking purely from an aesthetic standpoint. Kenma's natural state was curled in like a cat, but unlike some _other_ setters, he'd taken his team to nationals.

Kenma shot him an irritated sideways frown, as if to say he knew Kuroo wasn't giving him his best. _Just you watch me_ , Kuroo tried to signal back, with raised eyebrows and a grin.

That earned him one of the sighs he associated with Lev's stupidity. So. He curled his fingers in to his palm, beckoning: _bring it_.

He tried for a tight line shot, but mistimed it like he usually did. Bokuto said he was afraid of the sideline, which sounded flaky but plausible; his useless advice, though, was _just get over it like I did, dude_.

Kenma didn't give him time to wallow, though. The next ball was in the air, and this time he did better. Not great, but maybe Bokuto wouldn't have laughed too hard.

"Last one," Kenma said. The ball rose and fell, and he pushed it up as he jumped so it spun off his fingers in a near-perfect high set. Kuroo took off, feeling time slow at the peak of the jump, reaching the sweet spot and striking at full power and speed. The impact of the ball on the floor was loud enough to stop conversations and turn heads.

But he was only interested in Kenma, who was watching the ball with a tiny pleased smile even as he flexed his taped-up fingers. _Ten million points to Kenma,_ Kuroo decided. He deserved them.

"You a small-business owner?" someone shouted hopefully, and laughter followed.

Kuroo called back, "Nope," and watched as Okumura dropped a towel on Kenma's head and ruffled his damp hair. Kenma bore this for three seconds before shuffling sideways off the court and out of the spotlight, and immediately Okumura raised her voice for volunteers to get the net down, the balls and chairs put away, and the floor cleaned.

"Dodgeball club has the place from four," she added. "Asses in gear, people."

Kuroo wasn't worn out from playing, so he volunteered for the heavy lifting, and the gym was cleared and tidy in no time at all. Conversations between the teams spilled over into the car park, but Kenma looked antsy, duffel bag over his shoulder and phone in his hand.

"Can we go home?" Kenma's voice was low, from where he hovered at Kuroo's side. "There's a lot of people looking at me. Plus my superstitious idiot boyfriend refuses to put out before games."

Kuroo looked around, checking out the crowd. He'd worried that some of the business owners would be jerks about playing a queer team, but apparently volleyball really did bring everyone together (and logically, he supposed there were enough players who could have joined either team that it shouldn't be awkward). He heard people talking about local restaurants and beer; Kenma took a step back, impatient.

"I'd feel sorry for your sexual frustration if I didn't credit it at least a little for you playing a good game."

Kenma scoffed. "That was from a year of hard practice, you ass."

Kuroo nodded towards the road, and Kenma fell into step as he headed out, using Kuroo like a shield. Kuroo raised a hand to Okumura and called out that they were leaving, if that was cool. She waved back with a grin and a wink before returning easily to a heated discussion on blocking with a young business owner.

The local train took ten minutes longer than the semi-express to reach their station, but there were empty seats and no crowds. Kuroo steered Kenma into a corner seat and stood in front of him, duffel on the floor between his feet. Kenma hadn't swapped his sports glasses for his regular ones, but he seemed not to notice, absorbed in a colorful number puzzle app. Kuroo watched, curious, but Kenma swiped too fast for him to figure out the rules. Three stations from home he asked if he could text Oikawa about the game. Kenma shrugged, which was as good as a yes. Kuroo appended his favorite picture of Kenma in action (by happy coincidence, it also showed Kenma's shirt riding up and a sexy glimpse of his lower back).

Oikawa wrote back immediately with a complicated tangle of symbols, an incomprehensible kaomoji that nevertheless seemed smugly pleased.

＼＼\ ٩(`(エ)´ )و //／／


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as they got home, Kenma dropped his bag on a kitchen chair and pushed Kuroo against the wall to kiss him. Kuroo grabbed Kenma's ass and pulled him up, flush to his chest, even though Kenma nipped his tongue and pulled his hair.

He liked that, though, so he spread and curled his fingers, hoping to get reprimanded again.

"I'm going to fuck you," Kenma said, blunt and undiplomatic. Kuroo shuddered; some kind of Pavlovian response, he supposed. "I've been thinking about you _all day_. What I'd do to you."

"Go for it," Kuroo said, dredging up a smirk calculated to annoy. "Rock my world."

Kenma's eyes narrowed. "No. _you_ rock _mine_."

"Sure," Kuroo agreed immediately.

"I haven't showered," Kenma said, cheeks flushed the way they'd been on the court today.

"Eh." Kuroo ducked his head to scrape his teeth down Kenma's neck. His skin tasted like sweat, and it was an incredible turn-on. "I'm going to make you _filthy_."

"As if you could," Kenma scoffed.

They argued the point for the sake of arguing for the five paces it took to get to Kuroo's room – which doubled as their bedroom – and the half a minute needed to strip each other naked. Kuroo got in a final loud _will too_ and then grabbed Kenma and tossed him on the bed, making him laugh in surprise.

"I win," Kuroo said, and got Kenma's big toe between his teeth before he had the coordination to wiggle away. He licked and sucked every toe and finger, trailed kisses along the insides of Kenma's thighs and inside the crooks of his elbows, cat-lapped at flat brown nipples. He pushed Kenma's arm up and flattened all his armpit hair with his tongue, even though that made Kenma shove him off with a grumble.

He rolled Kenma over and kissed the backs of his shoulders like an apology (though he wasn't sorry, he was drunk on the way Kenma smelled and tasted). He mouthed his way down vertebrae to the cleft of Kenma's ass, then spread his cheeks and laved his tongue over and around his hole until Kenma couldn't hold back his breathy little gasps and pushed back, grinding into Kuroo's face. Kuroo pressed his tongue inside and Kenma grabbed fistfuls of the sheets like he needed an anchor. Kuroo was shaking with his own arousal, but he didn't want to stop, the tension ratcheting up and he wanted to know how high he could get.

"Wait," Kenma said. His voice sounded utterly destroyed, rough and desperate, and Kuroo felt a wash of fierce possessiveness – he'd done that, he'd made Kenma want so badly. This was something he could own wholeheartedly and unashamed. "Get the lotion and – on your back. Please."

The lube was in the drawer under the bed and would have been easier for Kenma to get, but Kuroo wasn't going to point that out.

Kenma had grabbed his uniform shirt from where it'd been tossed and spread it out to protect the sheets. He directed Kuroo – with impatient glances and pokes to his hip – to settle his ass in the center, over the green number eight.

"Look at you," Kenma murmured. The tip of his finger slid over the head of Kuroo's dick, and his mouth curled up at the way it jumped. "This is from me?"

"It always is," Kuroo said, reaching up to press the bottle of lube into Kenma's hand.

Kenma was rushing, so Kuroo wasn't surprised to find himself dripping wet as Kenma dragged a too-generous handful of lube down Kuroo's dick, around his balls, and then around himself as he knelt with his knees pressing Kuroo's legs together. In response, Kuroo tightened up as Kenma thrust between his legs, one hand braced on Kuroo's shoulder, nails digging in, and the other on his hip. His head was bowed down: to watch, and to hide his face. He hated Kuroo pointing out that his sex face was basically the same as his boss-fight-excitement face. Not that Kuroo was different – he always felt laid bare in bed with Kenma, like he didn't have any secrets. Like he wouldn't want secrets anyway, because having Kenma solve him like a puzzle turned him on like nothing else.

Sweat beaded on Kenma's shoulders and gave his chest and arms a golden sheen in the late afternoon sunlight; Kuroo was impelled to push up to taste, teeth finding purchase as Kenma ground down, pulled back, rode Kuroo's thighs like he took offense to the idea that he actually had to work to come. Kenma was gorgeous when he was frustrated, and Kuroo dragged his hands down Kenma's back, trying to pull him closer. He wanted Kenma to come first, so he fought to keep from touching his dick; he was so, so close. His balls were taking the brunt of the fucking, and he was overstimulated yet desperate for more, and he'd say something but none of the noises Kenma wrung from him were words.

"Kuro," Kenma said; he never had that problem. His voice was sharp and flat like he was angry, but as orgasm hit he stared right down into Kuroo's eyes, his mouth still open and round. Kuroo held him as pleasure arched his spine, feline grace in how he fell apart and how he let Kuroo watch. As soon as Kenma collapsed limp to the side, Kuroo kissed every part of him he could reach while pumping his dick with firm hard strokes. Kenma said his name again, and that was it, game over and lights out.

When the spots cleared from his vision and he no longer felt lightning-struck, he realized that Kenma had actually fallen asleep on his shoulder. Figuring that what Kenma didn't know wouldn't hurt him, he finger-combed the hair away from his face, petting the tangled mess. He smiled stupidly at Kenma's smooshed face and hoped Kenma never found out that he hadn't wiped his hand off first.


	7. Chapter 7

Kuroo could have said he woke Kenma up out of the good of his heart or a commitment to good hygiene, but actually he was bored and starting to itch. He tried to weasel his way out of Kenma's grasp gracefully, but parts of his body had adhered to Kenma, Kenma's uniform shirt, and/or other body parts. At least he didn't have a _spectacular_ string of bite marks all along his shoulder, he thought, and trailed his fingers over the darkening bruises. Maybe sometimes – occasionally – possessiveness and love could be the same thing.

"Stop looking so smug," Kenma slurred into Kuroo's chest, reaching up to bat at his hand limply, as if his batteries had run down.

"You're not even looking at me," Kuroo pointed out. Kenma's hair had dried into a mess of spiky tangles. _Whoops._

"I could be _totally_ blind and I'd still know that look on your face."

"It's the look of love," Kuroo told him loftily.

Kenma snorted. "It isn't."

"Is too."

"You're gross." Kenma managed to make a loose fist and rapped Kuroo with his knuckles. "I feel disgusting."

Kuroo stretched as best he could with Kenma flopped on top of him. "I take full credit for debauching you."

"You should." Kenma groaned and peeled himself up carefully. "What the fuck."

Seizing the opportunity, Kuroo crawled out of bed and made for the door. "I'll get the bath going."

"Dibs," Kenma called after him piteously, but he pretended not to hear. Given the choice between waiting and joining Kuroo in the shower, Kenma always took the latter option. He liked to laugh at how flat Kuroo's hair was when wet, before the cowlicks and curls made it poof up uncontrollably. Crushing his hair down with pillows was the best way Kuroo'd found to make it less vertical; the hardcore option involved hair gel and plastic wrap.

Clean and dressed, Kuroo wandered away from the indignation in his bathtub (Kenma wasn't as fond of his multitude of scratches and bruises as Kuroo was) to go check out dinner. The rice would be ready in twenty minutes, so he stuck the marinaded tandoori chicken into the toaster oven, and got busy prepping the spinach. He didn't have much confidence in cooking Indian food, but he knew Kenma liked it.

Kenma didn't emerge until the rice cooker played the cheery, irritating tune signaling completion. He padded right past Kuroo with their tiniest towel knotted around his hips – being an expert, Kuroo recognized this as _blatant provocation_ – and emerged from his room just as the table was set, wearing shorts and a tank top.

"Thanks for helping," Kuroo said, plunking Kenma's beer can down on the table and dropping into his chair hard enough that it made an alarming sound. He froze for a moment, braced for collapse, and Kenma pretended not to find it funny.

" _Itadakimasu_ ," Kenma said, as straight-faced as possible, and started filling his plate. He chewed the fake palak paneer (tofu was good for so many things) dubiously, but seemed to enjoy the chicken.

"Not bad, right," Kuroo hinted. He wasn't insecure, of course not, but he had no shame about fishing for complements.

Kenma shrugged and got up to get seconds of rice. "You've made worse. The first time you cooked curry, you didn't wash the potatoes."

"The first time we played volleyball you didn't realize you were supposed to catch the ball with your hands and not your face." Kuroo reached over and poked Kenma in the side – the advantage of having a dining-kitchen which was basically a wide hallway was the inevitable closeness. "We got better, I'd say."

Kenma turned around, setting his rice bowl down and leaning back against the stainless countertop. "Last night," Kenma started, and Kuroo put his chopsticks down in a hurry, the sound of his heartbeat too loud in his ears. He told himself that Kenma opening up to him was a good thing, and that he needed to be receptive. Coach Nekomata had told him that back in high school, one of those pieces of advice that in retrospect probably hadn't been about volleyball. "Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered... assuming I was going to die. After they left. I thought they left me _because_ I was dying, and I kept waiting for it to happen, and I got. Really angry. Who wants to wait around for something bad to happen?"

The doctors had told Aki Kenma's memories of that evening were incomplete and he couldn't be expected to ever recall totally; some combination of the injuries and the mental trauma. Kuroo had considered that a good thing. It was terrible knowing that Kenma remembered any of it.

He told Kenma that, and Kenma smiled, just a little.

"I wanted to see you, before I died. I remember that."

Kuroo winced; he liked romance and grand gestures, but not that. "Please stop talking about your near-death experience." His mind flashed back to that awful call he'd had from Aki, and rushing across the city to the hospital on a desperate succession of late-night trains; he'd never been so scared or helpless in his life. "The waiting I remember was for you to wake up, then to find out if you had brain damage or needed any body parts removed or if the surgery worked. And – here you are now, doing a really excellent job of being alive. Keep that up, okay?"

That earned him a familiar snort, fondly amused. "I try."

"For a really fucking long time," Kuroo clarified. "So sit down and finish your dinner. I love you. You want the rest of the spinach?"

Kenma didn't answer, just took his seat, pulled the serving bowl over, and helped himself.

After a minute, Kenma asked what time Kuroo'd be getting home tomorrow, which seemed almost thoughtful, but turned out to be a request for gyudon for dinner.

"A whole month of dinners," Kenma said, eyes glittering. "I won. You promised."

"I keep my promises. You know that." After a beat, Kuroo felt compelled to add, "Just so long as you don't expect my promises to be delicious."

Kenma considered this for a moment. "I'll bookmark recipes for you. Make a menu."

"Out of the goodness of your heart."

"Out of fear for my stomach."

Kuroo squinted. Sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference between Kenma being serious, and Kenma being deadpan.

He waited until the meal was over and the dishes were in the drainer, and then he asked, "Are you happy?"

That earned him a pensive stare; less Kenma being introspective, and more curiosity about Kuroo's motivation in asking that kind of thing. "I have an eight-thirty class tomorrow because it's Monday. I'm still scared from bad things that happened. I fell in love with my best friend once, which was awful, by the way. I was terrified of telling him, because he'd be so... kind about turning me down." Kenma shrugged, and hung up the dishtowel after having dried a total of no dishes. But the thought probably counted. "He said yes. His stupid hair is the first thing I see when I wake up. I'm still alive. So... two out of three. Statistically, I'm probably happy."

"Spoken like someone who'd have failed Intro Stat without my help," Kuroo said, tugging Kenma into a bearhug. "Who knew you could be so romantic?"

"I'd be happier if you stopped crushing me." Still, Kenma gave in and put a hand on Kuroo's back, patting twice. "You make me happy. I know you know that." He pushed up on his toes and surprised Kuroo with a quick kiss that he immediately looked embarrassed about. "I think... we're okay. And we're going to be okay. For a really fucking long time."

Kenma was a realist, so when he said things like that, belief hit Kuroo's bloodstream like a drug, a dizzying concoction of love and trust. He returned Kenma's kiss, keeping it soft and trying to make Kenma feel everything in his heart that there were no words for. They were a team, and they were both too hard-headed to let the ball drop on their side of the court. 

"I'm going to go write to Shouyou about the game," Kenma said, extricating himself and nodding towards the sofa. He touched Kuroo's arm, sliding his hand down until he could twine their fingers together. "Come sit with me? I know you took pictures, you need to send them to me."

"Sure." Kuroo let himself be tugged into Kenma's room, and let Kenma push him down and then lean on him like a cushion. Today was a good day; they had each other, and they were happy.

Kuro added _Another million points for both of us_ to his mental score, and smirked to himself as Kenma muttered over each picture in his his photo album.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The playlist for this story can be found [here on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRzef2XzKSy6xNYE2kquPNuRxO8JCZqo6).


End file.
